(no subject)
TITLE: Things we lost in the fire
AUTHOR: firenze083
PAIRING: gen, some House/Cuddy and Cuddy/Don
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Prompt 29. Burn. Five Four times Cuddy got burned and what distracted her.
i.
For as long as she can remember she has always straightened her hair. When she was younger her curls frizzed out and made her look years older than she was; not to mention the fact that she'd been taller than everyone else too, and she was the first to fill out out her training bra. She'd gotten to the habit of ironing her hair straight since the seventh grade and then it unconsciously became a habit ever since.
She has always been vain--it's not something she hides. And she loves looking good. Which is why she is never proud of the moment when, one morning, in the midst of ironing her hair she looks up at the mirror and sees it coming down in dark, lovely locks along her shoulder, pauses thoughtfully in surprise for far too long and only smells the burning a few seconds too late.
'Goddamn,' she mutters, gingerly fingering the burnt strands, steals another glance at herself in the mirror. The other half she has yet to straighten is still in raucous curls but this time it doesn't make her look older--more sensual, in fact, and years younger. She would laugh at the irony if she weren't running so late and her hair wasn't so crispy.
But then she doesn't straighten her hair the next day, or the day after that.
ii.
She fixes the scarf around her neck for the third time in five minutes. She hasn't done this in a while. She rolls her eyes at herself and warms her hands with her steaming coffee cup, drowns out the noise of the shop.
If he's not on time, she's leaving. She doesn't need another House-like creature in her life, God help her. Also, if he's short, she's walking out on him. Or if he has buck teeth, or lives with his mother.
God, the lowlives on the internet. She wraps her hands around her mug and lifts it. If he's not who he says he is, if he's not as self-assured and charming in person--she's the Dean of Medicine of a hospital, and she will not settle for less, no matter how busy she is, no matter how shriveled up she's going to be in another ten years, no matter how--
"Lisa?"
Someone's warm hand is on her shoulder and she startles--she didn't realize that she was frowning into her coffee cup, back hunched, lips pursed--and she looks up at the same moment some of the coffee in her cup spills over the rim and onto her fingers.
"Ow," she murmurs, but she's staring up at this tall, gorgeous man, no buck teeth, doesn't look like he lives with his mother.
"Careful," he says, reaching down and dabbing at her fingers with a napkin.
"I'm fine," she replies instantly, but she catches herself for a moment and lets him linger at her hands longer than necessary.
After his ministrations, he gives her a brilliant, boyish smile. "That was a bad start. Anyway, I'm Don and I don't really like ballroom dancing."
She gives a small laugh as she takes his proffered hand. Her fingers smart at the contact, but she decides that sometimes she loves the sting.
iii.
Cuddy wakes up with an ache between her legs that hovers the line between exquisite and torturously painful. She opens her eyes slowly, doesn't need to feel the empty space beside her to know that House is long gone.
She lays awake for a while, stretching lazily on the mess of tangled sheets and loving the feel of linen on her bare skin. She wonders how exactly their dynamics will change at work, how she'll order him back to clinic duty with a straight face when all she can think about at the moment is the smoothness of the hardwood floor on her naked back, his fingers dancing wickedly on her nipples, and his mouth, everywhere--pressed against hers, down the column of her throat, on the plane of her stomach, dipping down between her thighs--
She feels the heat rise up to her face. House has always been expert at keeping her on the edge.
She kicks the blankets away and plants her feet on the floor, stands--and that's when she feels the full soreness in all the right places, and curious prickling sensations everywhere on her body. She stands in front of the mirror and gapes.
On her cheeks, her neck, her cleavage, below her right breast are explosions of angry stubble burns. She feels more than sees the rawness at the inside of her thighs. She rolls her eyes and opens her closet door. She'd have to cover up today.
House does so love leaving marks.
iv.
One Sunday, Cuddy turns off her cellphone, tells her assistant to direct all emergency calls to Wilson, and takes her daughter to the beach.
It's Rachel's first time near the sea, and the moment she catches sight of the waves lapping the shore, she's twisting to get out of Cuddy's arms, babbling endlessly and pointing to the water with an insistent, chubby finger.
Cuddy shakes her head and smiles, lathering heaps and heaps of sunblock on Rachel's face, arms, back and legs as she frowns impatiently at her mother, twisting to get out of her grasp. The expression on her face is so priceless Cuddy laughs and finally puts her down.
'There,' she murmurs as Rachel squeals at the first touch of powdery sand on her toes. 'So impatient.'
Rachel zaps past the sand on her wobbly legs and runs for the water, plopping down on the shore and getting a blast of sea spray, leaving her licking the salt on her lips with the most bewildered look.
Every half hour she lathers her daughter with Coppertone and watches her scurrying after a terrified hermit crab, laughing, cocktail and book forgotten on her blanket.
Later that night, after she tucks an exhausted Rachel into bed, she feels a sting on her cheeks and forehead and wrinkles her face, feeling for the source. Her fingers meet raw, peeling skin and she frowns for a moment before her eyes widen in realization and she breaks into a small laugh, shaking her head.
She'd forgotten to put on sunblock.
AUTHOR: firenze083
PAIRING: gen, some House/Cuddy and Cuddy/Don
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Prompt 29. Burn. Five Four times Cuddy got burned and what distracted her.
i.
For as long as she can remember she has always straightened her hair. When she was younger her curls frizzed out and made her look years older than she was; not to mention the fact that she'd been taller than everyone else too, and she was the first to fill out out her training bra. She'd gotten to the habit of ironing her hair straight since the seventh grade and then it unconsciously became a habit ever since.
She has always been vain--it's not something she hides. And she loves looking good. Which is why she is never proud of the moment when, one morning, in the midst of ironing her hair she looks up at the mirror and sees it coming down in dark, lovely locks along her shoulder, pauses thoughtfully in surprise for far too long and only smells the burning a few seconds too late.
'Goddamn,' she mutters, gingerly fingering the burnt strands, steals another glance at herself in the mirror. The other half she has yet to straighten is still in raucous curls but this time it doesn't make her look older--more sensual, in fact, and years younger. She would laugh at the irony if she weren't running so late and her hair wasn't so crispy.
But then she doesn't straighten her hair the next day, or the day after that.
ii.
She fixes the scarf around her neck for the third time in five minutes. She hasn't done this in a while. She rolls her eyes at herself and warms her hands with her steaming coffee cup, drowns out the noise of the shop.
If he's not on time, she's leaving. She doesn't need another House-like creature in her life, God help her. Also, if he's short, she's walking out on him. Or if he has buck teeth, or lives with his mother.
God, the lowlives on the internet. She wraps her hands around her mug and lifts it. If he's not who he says he is, if he's not as self-assured and charming in person--she's the Dean of Medicine of a hospital, and she will not settle for less, no matter how busy she is, no matter how shriveled up she's going to be in another ten years, no matter how--
"Lisa?"
Someone's warm hand is on her shoulder and she startles--she didn't realize that she was frowning into her coffee cup, back hunched, lips pursed--and she looks up at the same moment some of the coffee in her cup spills over the rim and onto her fingers.
"Ow," she murmurs, but she's staring up at this tall, gorgeous man, no buck teeth, doesn't look like he lives with his mother.
"Careful," he says, reaching down and dabbing at her fingers with a napkin.
"I'm fine," she replies instantly, but she catches herself for a moment and lets him linger at her hands longer than necessary.
After his ministrations, he gives her a brilliant, boyish smile. "That was a bad start. Anyway, I'm Don and I don't really like ballroom dancing."
She gives a small laugh as she takes his proffered hand. Her fingers smart at the contact, but she decides that sometimes she loves the sting.
iii.
Cuddy wakes up with an ache between her legs that hovers the line between exquisite and torturously painful. She opens her eyes slowly, doesn't need to feel the empty space beside her to know that House is long gone.
She lays awake for a while, stretching lazily on the mess of tangled sheets and loving the feel of linen on her bare skin. She wonders how exactly their dynamics will change at work, how she'll order him back to clinic duty with a straight face when all she can think about at the moment is the smoothness of the hardwood floor on her naked back, his fingers dancing wickedly on her nipples, and his mouth, everywhere--pressed against hers, down the column of her throat, on the plane of her stomach, dipping down between her thighs--
She feels the heat rise up to her face. House has always been expert at keeping her on the edge.
She kicks the blankets away and plants her feet on the floor, stands--and that's when she feels the full soreness in all the right places, and curious prickling sensations everywhere on her body. She stands in front of the mirror and gapes.
On her cheeks, her neck, her cleavage, below her right breast are explosions of angry stubble burns. She feels more than sees the rawness at the inside of her thighs. She rolls her eyes and opens her closet door. She'd have to cover up today.
House does so love leaving marks.
iv.
One Sunday, Cuddy turns off her cellphone, tells her assistant to direct all emergency calls to Wilson, and takes her daughter to the beach.
It's Rachel's first time near the sea, and the moment she catches sight of the waves lapping the shore, she's twisting to get out of Cuddy's arms, babbling endlessly and pointing to the water with an insistent, chubby finger.
Cuddy shakes her head and smiles, lathering heaps and heaps of sunblock on Rachel's face, arms, back and legs as she frowns impatiently at her mother, twisting to get out of her grasp. The expression on her face is so priceless Cuddy laughs and finally puts her down.
'There,' she murmurs as Rachel squeals at the first touch of powdery sand on her toes. 'So impatient.'
Rachel zaps past the sand on her wobbly legs and runs for the water, plopping down on the shore and getting a blast of sea spray, leaving her licking the salt on her lips with the most bewildered look.
Every half hour she lathers her daughter with Coppertone and watches her scurrying after a terrified hermit crab, laughing, cocktail and book forgotten on her blanket.
Later that night, after she tucks an exhausted Rachel into bed, she feels a sting on her cheeks and forehead and wrinkles her face, feeling for the source. Her fingers meet raw, peeling skin and she frowns for a moment before her eyes widen in realization and she breaks into a small laugh, shaking her head.
She'd forgotten to put on sunblock.